


Not a Mission Statement

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake tells Zen why he's a rebel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Mission Statement

Zen never asks him why. It never glares at him, never accuses him of tyranny or manipulation. At night, during his watches, it is silent, its fascia glowing. Blake feels quiet, then, his emotions settling into some semblance of calm, or as close as they ever get. In these moments, his body relaxes against his chair, his hands resting on the computer in front of him.

When he speaks, and he does, he always does, it's in a soft whisper.

"I've always known that I was different. I've always known that what I felt, what I wanted wasn't what others felt. What they desired. But I didn't think there was anything wrong with chasing after boys. My parents tried everything: punishment, psychologists, medication. They were frantic. See, they knew, they knew and I was a child and I didn't know. I couldn't imagine the nightmare of--"

Blake stops, his voice hoarse. He stops and clears his throat, he unclenches his hands from the edges of the computer. He takes a calming breath and tries again.

"The mind of a child is flexible, more flexible than an adult. Children can imagine a million fantastic and contradictory things at once. For that reason the Administration thinks it is easily molded. My parents couldn't cure me of my homosexuality and so it was their turn. I was ten years old when I was first institutionalized. I was not allowed to bring anything from home: no holos of my parents, no stuffed toys, not even my own clothing."

He clasps his hands together, lightly, the expression on his face bland.

"I was a very stubborn boy. Very headstrong. But I was only ten years old. They hurt me and they hurt other children like me. Some were even younger than I was. Malcontents. Rebels at the tender ages of six through ten." It comes out more bitter than he expects. He remembers those hollow-eyed boys and girls, those ghosts in white pajamas.

"The ones who don't commit suicide generally wind up in some form of mental institution. It hurts you see. It hurts in ways that are indescribable. It... they..."

He falls silent.

Blake unclasps his hands and closes his eyes He reminds himself that he got out, that he beat them. Even if it doesn't always feel that way.


End file.
